


What She Commands Me

by George_Sand_II



Category: 17th Century CE RPF, The Favourite (2018)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, George gets far too little attention and too little credit and I will die on this hill, GeorgeAnne, They lost 17 pregnancies after all, but a happy one, eventually there may be some angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2020-05-20 10:32:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19374922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/George_Sand_II/pseuds/George_Sand_II
Summary: The year is 1683, and Prince George of Denmark is intent on meeting and getting to know his future wife, Princess Anne of Great Britain. He travels to England two months before their wedding is set to, and what ensues is a Dane falling head over heels faster than he can say 'Copenhagen', and an Englishwoman who is shocked and pleased to find that not all foreign Princes marrying English Princesses are like William of Orange.(The title is taken from George's own words: I am Her Majesty's subject, I shall do naught but what she commands me. This is also being written by me, a Dane, so I will be stuffing a bit of Danish into George's dialogue and forgetting to post the translations, sorry in advance.)





	1. English Roses

A year was not an overwhelming amount of time to do anything. You couldn’t fight a war in one year, unless of course you fought it very poorly, and you certainly couldn’t learn a language. Prince Jørgen of Denmark – no, no George he had to start thinking of himself as George, even though he could barely even pronounce it – had therefore spent a fair amount of time on the ship, and on the carriage ride towards the woman who would become his wife, reading his own little vocabulary. He had a small pocket notebook, with English words and phrases meticulously jotted down, but one thing was writing it down, another thing was actually being able to remember it. A few phrases he had memorised, but his English was still poor beyond words. And his French wasn’t much better. How was he supposed to actually communicate with the woman, when their languages did not correlate?

_Would you like to walk with me, milady?_

__That one he’d mastered. And it’d been one of the first phrases he’d used, because hell if he was going to have his first conversation with his almost-wife in a room filled with their entourages, her half of which were strangers to him, and his half of which were strangers to her. No. He’d much rather screw up with just one person present rather than forty, thanks very much._ _

__It did, however, leave him without an interpreter, which was both a blessing and a curse. Because neither he, nor the Lady Anne seemed terribly secure in their abilities to communicate at the moment. It was high summer, but England was not so far removed from Denmark in its climate, so there was still a slight chill to the air, even with the roses nodding heavy and full in the radiant sun. Anne was radiant too, enough so that she made it even harder for him to find his words. She was twelve years his junior, but taller than any woman he’d ever met, and certainly taller than him. And she was beautiful. Her eyes had a spark to them, when she wasn’t staring intently at the gravel path they were walking on that was, and her lips looked like they enjoyed smiling. George should very much like to be the cause of one of those smiles._ _

__All his senses were fixated onto her, and so he noticed how she looked away from the sun, like it stung in her eyes, and how the wind picked up slightly as they walked away from the cover of the great house. This would, of course, not do._ _

__“Here.” He’d reached into his pocket and now offered her his own silk scarf, which he’d carried with him on the sea voyage for no particular reason other than it was his mother’s, or had been, and he needed all the strength he could get. He helped Anne unfold it, and gently assisted her in covering her carefully styled hair. Briefly he wondered how long that had taken, his own was considerably easier. He just put the wig on._ _

__“Merci.” She said, and looked for a moment like she would say something more. His heartbeat picked up. But then she seemed to change her mind, and cast down her eyes._ _

__“De rien.” George swallowed, and desperately squeezed his brain for anything he could say to turn this into some form of conversation, “Ve Danish are very – ah hvad siger man nu – practical?”_ _

__Anne squinted at him, which honestly was endearing. It was, to him, a sign that he had her full attention now. Her focusing on him was welcome. “Do you mean pragmatic, sir?”_ _

__“Ah yes, yes, I… tink so.” Not terrible, George. Not amazing, but also not terrible._ _

__They walked in shared silence for a while, until he spotted a bench out of the corner of his eye. This, he led her to. They could both use a sit down, if she felt anything like him. And they did sit, and they sat in silence. A seagull soared above them, and thought its scream was hoarse, it reminded him of home. There were always gulls over Copenhagen. George took a deep breath, and he was about to speak. But then the word vanished into the back of his brain._ _

__And when he tried to grasp for it, it tumbled back, scurried away and hid, and he was sure he would remember it in a few hours, which would be too late. So, he pressed his lips together again._ _

__She looked at him questioningly, and all he could offer her was a little, reassuring smile. Seemingly, that gave her a little courage._ _

__“Pourquoi –“_ _

__“No, no.” He had stopped her before he even realised what he was doing. And her confused, slightly nervous glance was enough to almost make him hurt. “I did not – ah – mean… that is to say, I meant…” Good one, George. How was he going to salvage this one? “Soon I am an English subject…“ That one he’d thankfully rehearsed, not so much the next, “I vish to – øhm – speak as one.”_ _

__Those words caused her to blink in what appeared to be confusion, and he was genuinely mortified at the thought of her not having understood his intent. But then, to his surprise, she smiled. It was tiny, it was brief, but it was unmistakeably a smile. George could’ve fainted from relief alone. “Then, sir, I should like to ask of you why you consented to this match.”_ _

__George walked himself through her words one by one. “A moment.” He requested, before getting out his little pocket vocabulary. Consented… Cavendish, Cavorting, Celebration, Charity – Consent, there it was._ _

___Consent/Agree: indvillige/give samtykke._ _ _

____Ah, now it made sense. What an odd question for her to ask… “Surely –” He began, then stopped to clear his throat. It did not alleviate his awkwardness. “Surely for the same reason as you?”_ _ _ _

____“But should William and Mary remain childless, you would be King.” She looked at him unflinchingly now, like she had to have an answer to this. To her visible shock, he laughed. It was an honestly surprised, spluttering, guttural laughter._ _ _ _

____“Min kæreste frøken – dearest lady, no. No, no. I vould not be King. Du godeste nej.” George shook his head gently, and looked at her with mirthful eyes, his smile making small, pleasant crinkles appear by his eyes, “Trone and crown – not for me. But you… vould be Queen.”_ _ _ _

____That made her frown, “Surely, the Danish negotiators intended –“_ _ _ _

____“They vish, ah, that my father has a different son.”_ _ _ _

____“Had.”_ _ _ _

____“Tank you. Had. Had a different son.”_ _ _ _

____Anne looked at him, she looked at him now like everything she’d thought was up for revaluation, and she did not quite know what to think. But she also did not look displeased. “So, you really have no desire for the crown? That is not why you wish to wed me?”_ _ _ _

____This time, he dared. George reached out and gently took both her long, slim hands into his. God, she made him feel dwarfed. But he liked that. It was far better than standing alone. “No. I am not Villiam. Simply, I am…. George.” It still felt strange on his tongue, that name, “Should we start vith this?”_ _ _ _

____“Yes.” She answered, her little, sweet smile stealing his breath utterly, “We shall start with this.”_ _ _ _

____“Shall. My god, this _language.”_ His genuine displeasure shone through this time.___ _

______And, to his great joy, she laughed._ _ _ _ _ _


	2. Shakespeare in Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anne and George go to the theatre, but George is not looking at the stage.

George cast one more glance into the full-length mirror while his valet secured the cravat around his neck, and he swallowed in an attempt to alleviate the vague feeling of strangulation that that always brought with it. French fashion, he would never understand it. Such things were said to be appreciated by the ladies, but it seemed impractical to be slowly asphyxiated while attempting to court someone. Courting. Strange how they had just seemed to skip that step, he and Anne – then again, getting married did not necessarily mean that two people particularly liked each other, it was just… well, he’d prefer it if they did. The thought of being with a woman who despised him was not exactly appealing. Anne doesn’t despise you he thought to himself, as he walked out of his rooms and towards the parlour where they were to meet, at least, I hope not. Already he was concerned about the colour that his valet had chosen. A deep red suited his complexion, sure, when he wasn’t deep pink. Judging by the pounding of his heart in his temples, he was already well on his way towards that hue, and she wasn’t even here yet. The horrors of having a Danish complexion was that it was fair most of the time, but it could go from snowy to bright pig very quickly.

He was gratuitously left alone to wait for her, which was good by all accounts because if anyone had tried to make small talk with him in that instance, he might actually have shouted at them. George was doing everything his instructors had ever told him not to do. Picking at the lace on the ends of his sleeves, adjusting his cravat in an attempt to breathe, wishing his wig to hell, and sweating. The latter may have had something to do with the fact that he was dressed all the way up, and it was high summer, but that did not exactly make it more comfortable.

Steps on the other side of the door made him acutely aware that she was arriving, and he tried his best to appear as though he hadn’t just a moment ago been attempting to undo his lace by picking at it. Then the heavy doors were opened by two valets who, in comparison with Anne, were minute. She towered magnificently, just as she had yesterday, but her scowl almost frightened him. Did he displease her? But she was smiling softly at the same time, and her eyes, though narrowed, looked more reserved than angry. He chose to look into them, rather than at her tensing brows.

“Milady Anne.”

“Prince George.”

That, of course, was the moment when his eyes dropped as he noticed – George swallowed. Whether consciously chosen or not, the low-cut gown meant that she certainly absolutely had his full attention. “Du godeste Gud i himlen.” He whispered under his breath. Not only was it low cut, but the pale skin of her delicate neck and, well, other parts of her, shone against the deep red of her gown, and oh she was a sight to behold.

“I shall take that as a compliment.” She stated, while looking vaguely amused as his eyes came up to meet hers again.

“Most certainly.” George breathed, because lord how could he not. If this woman would grace him with her love, he would consider himself the luckiest man in the world. Or, at least, a fair deal luckier than any of his brothers, if he was allowed to think that. “I mean to say – ah – tat Milady you look most – ah, ord, ord – stunning.”

“Have I stunned you, sir?” she asked, feigning innocence. Oh, but that gleam in her eyes, he liked it!

George sent her what he hoped was a charming smile, but if he was to be completely honest it might’ve been more of a grin. “Ubehjælpeligt.” He said before he even thought to change languages, “Ah, I mean, hmm, very, yes.”

She raised a thoroughly unimpressed brow at him, and George made a helpless movement with his hands, the long ruffles making it unintentionally theatrical “Words, Milady, words. I… ah, I…”

“Lack them?”

“Yes.” He admitted bitterly. “For now.”

“Then we shall have to teach you, sir. But shall we go – for now?” she smiled at him again, and he could almost forgive himself for lacking the vocabulary to express how she affected him, as he offered her his arm. It was odd to lead a lady who was a full head taller than he, it felt more like having a lion beside him.  
And he had to admit that he enjoyed it quite thoroughly.

It was only as they walked to the carriage, and he helped her enter it, that he had the time to fully appreciate her appearance. Everything seemed chosen carefully to emphasize the many, many beautiful aspects of her – her shapeliness, her pale, pure skin, her eyes, such a light blue that they almost bordered on grey. He could, and would gladly, go on.

“I take it I please you, sir?” Anne’s scowl had grown a fair deal more intense as were seated in the very dimly lit carriage, and George, acting on a whim, leaned forward towards her. They were already close, but her frowning eased considerably when his face was closer to hers. Poor eyesight, then, perhaps?

“More tan I can say.” He pressed his lips together in an expression of genuine displeasure, “Quite, ah, literally.”

At that, she laughed. An honest splutter of a laugh that she clearly had not intended. The sumptuous pearl droplets that hung from her ears bounced with it, and he could not help a little chuckle himself. In a moment of daring, George reached out and took her hands in his, giving them a gentle little squeeze.

Their arrival at the theatre awoke feelings in him that he had, until now, thought himself blissfully incapable of. She had, of course, his full attention, but she also had the attention of, it seemed to George, every other male, and some female, members of the audience. Logically, he knew that some of the staring had to be directed at him as the stranger, but he couldn’t help but feel… jealous. This disconcerting feeling of possessiveness towards a woman that he did not – and would never wish to – possess or tame. And for God’s sake, he had known her for a day, a day. Not nearly enough time to start getting jealous, he reminded himself, that was doing her a disservice, and she deserved better. As such, he endeavoured to not let these emotions speak when he was introduced to members of the nobility who happened to be present for this night’s production, preferring anyway to stay quiet as his English was broken and inadequate. Anne seemed at first not to notice, but she made the introductions so brief, broke them off so quickly herself, that he eventually realised she did it for his sake. That was enough to stave off his jealousy and for her to reclaim his attention utterly. It was hard to have eyes for anyone but her as she was dressed tonight, and with the little pearly laugh she would gift only to those who genuinely amused her.

He found himself looking more at her than at the stage in the relative darkness of the theatre, watching her hanging earrings make shadows on her neck, study the line of her brow as she squinted in concentration to try to see what exactly was going on in the play. He had read this play, Romeo and Juliet, though in translation, and the story was of no particular interest to him, though he was sure the actors were excellent, it was difficult to enjoy a spoken play when one could not catch the gist of what was said. So, when she turned towards him in the intermission and asked if he was watching the play at all, he could only shrug.

“I read tis play, back in Denmark, te ah… plot? Plot. Is not unknown to me.”

“Yes but…” she made a determined gesture with her hand, which made the gems in the bracelet clasped around her wrist sparkle, “Surely you can appreciate the words and the plot so much more now that it is acted out before you –“

Calmly, George placed a hand on hers, to placate her a little, “Milady, I cannot appreciate te vords, not ah, not…”

“Yet?”

“Yes, tank you. And also…” he looked her in the eyes with a wink, “I like to, ah, keep attention to te most important thing in te room.”

“Keep _your_ attention _on_ the most important thing in the room.” Anne corrected, turning her head down a little to hide the colour rising to her cheeks. George smiled triumphantly. Clearly, he was not the only one to go bright pink when he blushed, thank god, but the colour looked infinitely better when it was on her face.


	3. Know When To Fold 'Em

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anne and George play a rather unorthodox game of cards, and an important truth is aired. (For which posterity have only little in the way of actual evidence, but much in rumor and guesswork).

They spent nearly a full week more, in each other’s company as often as was possible, and perhaps a little more than was strictly proper. George was certainly inappropriately pleased when Anne started to invite him to play cards every evening after dinner. She had a chaperone, of course, but still it was very enjoyable. He let her win far more often than he should have, on this particular evening she even won his sleeve buttons off him, which seemed to amuse her greatly.

“To see you smile, milady, makes me almost do te same. It is vort any price.” Although of course now his shirt sleeves hung open all the way up to his forearms. No matter.

“We are getting married, so expect your buttons to be returned to you soon.” Anne gathered the cards and began to mix them deftly, her hands doing the motions with such ease, that he guessed that she was not so untrained at cards as she pretended to be. Clearly, they were competing in who could manage to let the other win without being obvious.

“I shall avait tat return eagerly.” There was no way for him to utter what he wished to say next in English, so he chose to go by his mother’s tongue and hope that she would understand, “Gid jeg kunne gøre Dem lykkelig.”

Anne blinked, tilted her head slightly, and thought. Then, she smiled softly, “Perhaps you can, sir. George if I may?”

“Certainly, you may, Anne.” George winked at her, “But… ah, you must get used to leaning down a little I am afraid.”

“Ah, I must, mustn’t I?” She leaned a little closer to him, and he found himself slowly turning a bright and unflattering pink, “You know, I find it quite sweet actually. Your height.”

George pretended offense, “Do not mok me, Anne. Ve are a very stoic people, te Danes.”

“Are you indeed?”

“No.” He smiled at her, and winked again, “Ve like vine, food, and amusing furniture. Also, beautiful and clever vomen.” 

To his immense glee, Anne winked at him, continuing her elegant mixing of the cards, “You shall find three out of four of those things here in England, but I will not tell you which. That, you must discover yourself.”

Well aware that he was looking rather dreamily at her, George knew that he had already found one. However, as he did not know how to tell her this without being inappropriately blunt or inelegant, he stayed silent. Sometimes it was better not to speak at all, though as a Dane he wasn’t particularly trained in keeping his mouth shut. It wasn’t an art that was generally practiced in his country.

Anne dealt the cards once again and, robbed of everything short of his actual clothes, which he would prefer to keep on for all their sakes – not least because of the fact that these were her rooms and he’d have to walk the long way to his own by the time the evening was over – George wondered what on earth they could play their next round over. There had to be a prize, that was the rule.

“Now, one thing remains…” Anne, judging by the pensive look on her face, was having quite the same thoughts as he did. Beneath her pensive exterior, however, there was a mischievous gleam that made him think she had a plan, “You are, of course, completely broke for the moment. Which leaves the question of what we shall bet for our final game.” She was looking at him. Suddenly, he quite understood. It was not proper for an unmarried lady to bet something like this herself, but if he did, it would only be considered mildly improper instead of outright scandalous.

George smiled softly, returning her mischief with his own, “I say ve bet a kiss.” A better English-speaker might have made his offer more subtle, and a different man might not have made it at all. Seeing as George was George and his English was appalling, he made the ouverture outright.

At her side of the round table, Anne feigned a shock, placing her hand over her heart as if to guard her modesty. All this, of course, was a game they played in mutual understanding, partially to keep the chaperone unsuspecting and uninterested in all that was happening underneath the pretence, “My word, Prince George! Fie!” once the chaperone had lost her interest, which had caused her to briefly look up from her embroidery, Anne lowered her voice and leaned closer, “I say we absolutely do, your move first.”

With what can only be described as a grin, which he made only sorry attempts to suppress, George began their game with the absolute worst opening he could think of. Anne did the same, bless her, and by the gleam in her eyes he perceived that she was doing it for the same reasons as he himself was. Their game turned upside down, as they each did their outmost to lose it, rules bent inside out, chances purposefully missed, all with the constant exchanging of little clever smiles and challenging looks shared over the cards. Anne was clever, so clever that she sometimes went in loops around him, but George had spent most of his time playing cards in the company of soldiers and sailors, of varying ranks, and he did not play entirely by the rules. He never broke them, but he was downright excellent at bending them to his preference.

George lost. He did so with a triumph that losers very rarely exhibit. It was better this way at any rate, he rather thought. Better that she kissed him than he kissed her, it seemed more… respectful. Less taking a prize and more a prize taking him. Which made no sense, and yet made excellent sense somehow? He did not quite understand his own thinking at the moment, she was making it all scrambled and overexcited, and it was a wonderful thing to feel. The very tips of his fingers began to tinge and his heart beat faster in his chest when she met his gaze. Beside them, the chaperone had fallen asleep, or was respectfully feigning sleep to allow the couple their privacy and chance. Anne winked.

“Now, my dear George,” she spoke very softly now, presumably to not wake the chaperone in case she was genuinely sleeping, “How ever shall I claim my prize? For you are so far away, and the table is so very wide.”

“Your prise, my lady, vill come to you.” Answered George, feeling, for the first time since he came here, successfully charming. Careful to uphold the illusion of quiet, he eased himself out of his chair and went round the table, which was really not that large, in order to go down on one knee beside here. Here, his success waned and he went from charming to flustered, but she looked upon him with a warmth in her eyes and a kind look that made him think he might even call forth fondness to her heart one day. Then she leaned down and kissed him.

She kissed him thoroughly, in fact, so much so that he grew legitimately concerned.

Once they parted, he observed her with a slightly sideways look, “You have, ah –“

“Done this before. Yes. I do not believe in lies between married people, George, so I will tell you that I have not done it with a man, if that is what you are concerned about.”

On the floor George’s eyes went wide and his lips parted on a soft, “Oh.” Then, he made up his mind, his smile returned and he got up, “Do I suffice?”

Perched like a tall and fair swan in her chair, Anne seemed to shine with relief and a certain giddiness, “It is a little scratchier, but I think you shall do very nicely altogether.” Her face turned for a moment pensive, and her gaze seemed to turn to some internal thought, “Yes. Very nicely indeed.”


End file.
